


Resolutions

by Minx_DeLovely



Series: The Sally Donovan Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:26:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28406961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minx_DeLovely/pseuds/Minx_DeLovely
Summary: Since Christmas Eve, sleep had been treacherous. She’d been having the same dream; Sherlock Holmes in her bed, holding down her hands and kissing her. He always had on his winter clothes and she never had on anything at all. It was so vivid and real every time. Her skin felt chafed from the wool of his coat and she woke up tasting him. The first time she’d actually hopped out of bed and grabbed her gun. Then she’d searched her flat looking for someone who’d broken into her house. There wasn’t anyone, of course. Her imagination had just chosen to torture her.(A continuation of the story "Christmas Eve.")
Relationships: Sally Donovan & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Sally Donovan Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2080548
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Resolutions

Sally never went out for fun on New Year’s. As a beat cop she’d worked the day every year, and it was always a corker. If she’d doubted the wisdom of getting married, working New Year’s Eve every year convinced her she was making the right choice. Now that she was a detective, she still worked New Year’s Eve, but it was typically a quieter night, poring over older cases.

Her best friend, Charlotte, always made a vision board on New Year’s Eve, illustrating her dreams for the coming year. She’d texted it to Sally earlier in the evening--just pictures of women sleeping.

“Dreams really do come true--my Nan is taking Angel for the night, so I’m getting to bed at seven,” Charlotte texted.

Sally laughed out loud and called her. “When did your Nan get there?”

“She and mum and dad came for Christmas.”

“Get in a few hours for me.”

“Oh, I will. Next year we’ll all be back together again. Eric’s job is ending in May, and by then I’ll be finished with my dissertation. It’s going to be epic.”

“I know, Char.” Sally didn’t think it would ever be the same between them, different priorities and all, but she didn’t want to ruin Charlotte’s mood.

“What’s your resolution this year?” Charlotte asked.

Sally always had a resolution. It was the only tradition she held to, and she’d mostly kept them up. She learned a little French, stopped eating meat, quit smoking. She even took a pilates class one year, but that only lasted a few months. Flexibility seemed less important than martial arts training. 

“Since Christmas Eve I decided to quit drinking. It’s been a long week.” 

“Cheers, love. I know you’ll be able to do it. You’ve been able to do everything.”

That’s the way Charlotte saw her--implacable in the face of any adversity. It helped that at least one person did. They said their goodbyes, and then Sally slid her phone back into the inside pocket of her jacket. She had paperwork to finish up, and then she was done. As she stared at the computer screen, she wondered what to do with herself for the rest of the year.  
She wasn’t talking to her cousins--or more, they weren’t talking to her because she wouldn’t make nice with her uncle. Her auntie would be with Uncle Lionel and so would her mum. Even with a gun strapped to her hip, she didn’t want to be in the same room with him.  
Anderson was off to visit his family in Yorkshire.

Her friend, Mill, was usually a reliable bet on a lonely night, but he’d started seeing a woman he really liked. Their whole years-long arrangement of guilt-free hook-ups and fantastic pancakes the next morning had evaporated the second Mill met her. Sally was pretty sure they’d gotten engaged, but she didn’t want to pore over his social media to confirm. Mill was such a good friend; she’d probably been in love with him. Then wasn’t the best moment to realize her feelings--it probably would have been better to tell him when he’d asked her if she wanted to take their hook-ups into the daytime. That was over. Mill was over. In retrospect, it was probably tacky of her to have sent him a Christmas card. 

She could make herself a nice dinner and then go to sleep, except that since Christmas Eve, sleep had been treacherous. She’d been having the same dream; Sherlock Holmes in her bed, holding down her hands and kissing her. He always had on his winter clothes and she never had on anything at all. It was so vivid and real every time. Her skin felt chafed from the wool of his coat and she woke up tasting him. The first time she’d actually hopped out of bed and grabbed her gun. Then she’d searched her flat looking for someone who’d broken into her house. There wasn’t anyone, of course. Her imagination had just chosen to torture her.

Even though Sally didn’t hate Sherlock anymore, she didn’t exactly like him. She’d never wanted to have sex with someone she didn’t like before and the intensity of her lust for him genuinely frightened her. One apology couldn’t erase his whole vibe of super-dramatic, pompous bullshit. Still, he’d proven himself a little more complicated than her initial assessment, and she regretted being cruel to him. The fact that he saw her as a bully nagged at her. It tracked. He was an outsider and she’d closed ranks to him. She’d used everybody’s dislike of him to ease things for herself. It was classic schoolyard nonsense, and she’d fallen into it as an adult. The whole thing was really embarrassing in retrospect.  
Sally tapped away at the keyboard, transcribing her notes, when the subject of her dreams stormed into the room. His hair was slightly damp and the shoulders of his long, black coat glistened. It was either raining or snowing outside. He stopped and looked at her. His face crumpled with distress.

“What are you doing here?”

“I work here.”

“But it’s late. You should’ve been home a half hour ago, and on a holiday no less.” 

Sally finished her report and saved it, then stood up. “You’re acting very suspicious in a police station, Fr--friend.” 

He smiled without calculation. “Come with me. Neither of us should be here right now. No wonder Mycroft--”

“What about your brother?” She walked around her desk and over to him, stepping a little too close into his personal space. “What’s he got to do with me?”

“I’ll explain when we’re outside. Grab your coat.”

“Explain now.”

He grabbed her shoulders and leaned in close to her ear. “There’s a mole. Moriarty’s mole. You know him. And tonight he’s going to be flushed out with fire. You don’t want to burn, Sally.”  
She gulped. None of what he said made sense--Moriarty had died, and if there was no Moriarty, there was no mole. Even Mycroft couldn’t get away with burning down a police station in the middle of London, unless it was a tortured metaphor. She shouldn’t have believed him. Con-men always tried to instill a sense of urgency in their marks, and when he touched her she felt like she was getting conned. If it was just to trick her out of her pants, that would be all right, but she wasn’t sure of that either. 

His lips touched her ear lobe. “You’re not sure you can believe me. I understand. Just come with me and I’ll prove everything I say.” 

Sally pulled away. Part of her thought that if she left with him he’d take her into an alley and murder her. The thought of his hands on her throat made her breath catch and her face get hot. She felt like a stranger to herself--this was what she wanted? This was what turned her on these days? Violence at the hands of man she could barely tolerate.  
She’d resisted therapy. Even after she got shot, she’d only participated because it was mandatory to get back to work, but now she reconsidered. New Year’s Resolution number two would be to see a therapist, pronto. No drink, no rough sex with a freaky weirdo. It was going to be a future of clean living and smart choices.

Starting tomorrow.

“Alright,” Sally said. 

She went back to her desk and grabbed her coat. Together they walked through the office; she just barely kept up with his stride. Unlike an hour ago, when she’d gone to get a cup of coffee, the department was almost entirely empty. Sarah, who always answered phones at the front desk, and Elijah, who guarded the door, were gone. Sally started to feel sick to her stomach. It was a metropolitan police station. There should be police around, especially on one of the most fraught nights of the year.  
She and Sherlock walked outside together, not touching. As they passed through the revolving door out onto the street, a stiff, cold wind hit her. She moved closer to Sherlock and he put his arm around her. She didn’t shake it off. He ushered her across the street to a shuttered cafe. He took out a ring of keys and opened the door.

“What’s this now?” she asked.

“The owner owes me a favor.” He flashed her a bright smile, and then opened the door. They went inside and he locked the door behind him. Her heartbeat increased when he locked the door. He touched the small of her back and guided her over to the plate glass windows. No one could see them in the dark building. It smelled like orange cleaner with a hint of fried foods beneath. Well-cleaned, but the food scents permeated the folksy eyelet curtains hanging in the store front.

Sherlock put his hands on her shoulders. “Watch. They should be going in just...now.”

As soon as he said “now” she saw a line of people in black SWAT gear going into the front revolving door of the police station. The individuals were not marked with any kind of identifying letters. Sally stiffened and Sherlock tightened his grip on her shoulders. 

“Who is that?”

“Your government.”

“That’s extra-legal, that’s wrong.” The police weren’t supposed to be subject to this sort of raid. This wasn’t supposed to be how things worked in her department, her country.

“They’re going to take Detective Lars Gris out of the building and interrogate him,” Sherlock said. “There won’t be any witnesses and he will vanish from the face of the earth. You’ll hear a cover story when you get back that Gris tendered his resignation. His wife got a good job in Belarus--Minsk. She’s from there. You’ve never met his wife. Nobody has. But they’ll remember her, and it will ring true.” 

“How can that be possible?”

“My brother will make it possible. If you were in the building, you would’ve been caught up in things. Interrogated, drugged and discredited. It would be easy. You said so yourself, people look for it when a woman like you tries to find a seat at the table.” 

Through the windows of the police station, she could see the unmarked SWAT team running up floors, their guns drawn. They looked like a line of ants. 

“He should be tried.”

“He should be, but that would expose a lot of people. Easier to do it all in the dark.”

The team of people came downstairs carrying a zippered bag. When they flooded out the front, Sally could see more clearly. It looked like a body bag, but whomever was inside still struggled. They carried the bag to a catering truck parked by the side of the road, and threw it inside. Several men got in, too. They closed the back and sped away. The rest scattered to black SUV’s. The entire process took less than five minutes. 

“I can’t believe this.”

“That’s your choice,” Sherlock let her go. The loss of contact made her feel too light. Almost insubstantial enough to blow away. 

“Why did you come to the station? Not to protect me,” she said. “You looked surprised to see me there.”

“I was convinced Moriarty would be there.”

“He’s dead. You watched him die.”

“John watched me die, yet I’m standing in front of you. I’m not sure of anything.”

“Sorry to have spoiled your chances.”

She didn’t know what to feel. Her police department was supposed to be righteous and clean.. Her cousins on her dad’s side always gave her side-eye for being a cop. They saw it as a betrayal. Now she knew all her protests about a few bad apples had been meaningless. She was part of an ugly machine.

The fact of things made her want to cry. Instead, Sally coolly watched Sherlock pace among the round tables and chairs. She contained her pain and began to catalogue her surroundings.  
Behind pacing Sherlock stood a lunch counter with stools; it was too dark to tell their color. Silver machines glinted behind the counter. His skin looked bluish and his black coat a void. She could watch him forever, all night long. She could watch him instead of dealing with the other things she’d seen that night. 

“What now?” Sally asked. She wanted to pick up a final bottle of wine to drink before the New Year came. She wanted to pour it down her throat before she fucked Sherlock Holmes.

“We’ll leave. Not out the front. The CCTV camera will be back on. We’ll go out the back.” 

He took her by the arm, and she didn’t pull away. They crept through the dark restaurant and went out the back of the building, into the alley. Aside from the dumpster, it was empty. They walked around the building and onto the sidewalk. He turned to her, still holding her arm.

“Split a cab?” he asked.

“Yeah. Unless you want to come back to mine.” She winced as she said it, embarrassed for saying it out loud. 

“Why?”

He looked genuinely baffled, that worry line manifesting between his eyes like when he’d seen her at her desk. The confusion meant he hadn’t thought about kissing or touching her at all. She’d been having desperate dreams about him for a week and yet, to him, she’d obviously failed to register. He’d forgotten.  
Sally moved out of his grasp and began walking down the sidewalk.

“Never mind. Because of Christmas Eve. I thought maybe--but you’re right. That was a mistake all around. You probably patched it up with John, haven’t you?”

“He’s got a fiancee now. We’re friends again, but it won’t be like it was.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. She didn’t know which part to be sorry about, but it was how she felt.

“No need.”

“It’s good. I’m swearing off casual stuff for the New Year. Just getting a jump on it tonight.”

“Do you have a lot of casual stuff, Officer Donovan?”

“That wouldn’t be your business even if you wanted to come home with me tonight.” 

He stopped at the cab stand, where there was a running car waiting. He held the door open for her, and she slid across the seat. He got in very close next to her, so close she could feel the warmth of his body. His cologne made her feel drunk. 

“Why bring it up, then? Unless you were trying to reassure me you wouldn’t be any trouble in the morning?” he asked.

“Forget I said anything.”

The driver, a man in a patchwork ivy cap, asked them where to.

Both at once they gave him Sally’s address. She looked away from Sherlock. He moved away from her, to the other side of the cab. The seat was a valley between them. She wasn’t grateful to him or angry with him anymore. Her feelings were a hard ball in her chest and she wasn’t going to be anything toward Sherlock Holmes anymore. He was going to be a polite stranger to her and nothing more. This was better than open animosity, she told herself. She’d made an ally of him. It was fine.

They got to her flat and she paid her portion, then jumped out onto the sidewalk. She was halfway down the street when he caught up with her.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her head bowed against the cold.

“Walking you to your door.”

“I can make it okay, you didn’t have to lose the cab.”

Sally unlocked her downstairs door and started to clomp up to her steps. His light footsteps echoed behind her. When she got to her second door, he caught up. She fitted the keys in the lock.  
He put his hands on her waist. His mouth found her earlobe, then he kissed the side of her face. There should have been words, some kind of discussion, but she didn’t want to speak and risk that he’d stop kissing her. 

She opened her door. Together they tumbled into her rooms, his hands sliding all over her body. He eased her jacket off as she struggled to set the lock. Finally, they succeeded in both. He took off his coat and dropped it on her floor. Her hands went to the hem of her shirt, and untucked the tails. His gloved hands slid underneath the fabric, cold and slick leather against her hot skin. He held her, his front to her back. She rested her forehead on the door while he caressed her stomach. He slid his hands up and cupped her breasts. She sucked in a breath. He pinched her nipples through the soft lace of her bra. Sally whimpered. She tilted her head back, and he kissed her neck. 

His voice vibrated against her throat. “Your lips are red and your cheeks are flushed. You’re even more beautiful when I touch you.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“Would you rather I be cruel?”

His question caught her off guard and she couldn’t speak. He pinched her nipples so hard she yelped. 

“You would.” He sounded surprised.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. Your whole body knows. You want me to force you on your knees, don’t you?”

For a terrible moment she couldn’t breath. He’d humiliated her thoroughly by accusing her of the same, and she hated herself for wanting to show him how good she was on her knees.

“Yes.” She wondered if he could even hear her voice, her response was so quiet. 

“Turn around.”

She did as he said, and then let him push her down onto the floor. She undid his fly while he gripped a handful of her hair. His cock was already hard. She swallowed around the length, smooth and hot in her mouth. He held the back of her head, forcing her slowly forward and back. It wasn’t necessary--she knew how to suck cock--but she wanted to feel like he was using her. He knew it, too.  
He gagged her, her eyes started to water but she wanted more. Having him in her mouth made her wet. She looked up at him. He wore all his clothes, and was gasping, holding her hair like a handlebar. His cock started to leap against her tongue. He pulled her head back, yanking her hair so sharply she let him go.

“Not yet,” he said. He touched her face. The black leather felt cool. “Take off your clothes.”

She wiggled out of her slacks and her underwear, still on her knees. Luckily, she wore flats, so she only had to kick them off. She unbuttoned her blouse, stripped the shirt off and added it to the pile. All that was left was the bra. 

“Stand.” Even though he was coming across commanding and mean, he still offered her his hand so that she could get on her feet without falling over. He stuck the middle finger of his glove in his mouth, and pulled it off with his teeth. 

“Face the door. I think you need a spanking, don’t you?”

She followed his order. He smoothed his hand over her ass with a sort of tenderness, before he landed a hard slap on her bottom. Involuntarily, her back arched.

“You’re gorgeous,” he muttered. 

The stroking and slapping continued until her legs trembled. She’d have red marks in the morning. Her upper thighs were slick with her wetness.

“Do you like it, Sally?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to fuck you?”

“There’s condoms in my purse, in the metal canister.”

He grabbed her purse from the floor, and stirred through it quickly. With the tin in hand, he popped it open. Without complaint, he rolled it on his length. Impulsively, she turned around and kissed his swollen lips. He hugged her, kissing her deeply.

She kissed his neck and undid a few buttons on his shirt. He lifted her legs, pressed her against the door and plunged into her. He pistoned into her while holding her ass. Her legs trembled wildly. She held onto his shoulders, digging her nails into the fabric of his suit coat. Sally couldn’t think. He kissed her again and again, as though holding a sustained note. Her orgasm came on like a thunderclap. She clamped onto him.

Sherlock’s eyes rolled back in his head and he gulped the air. It seemed like he was finishing, but he didn’t waver in holding her. He buried his face in the curve of her neck. Gently, he let her descend. Sally’s feet touched the floor. She staggered away from him, jangled and confused. If she hadn’t held the wall for support, she would have crumpled to the ground.

“Should I be going then?” he asked.

She didn’t turn around to look at him, but she could hear the wry smile in his voice. Sally considered it; she’d never had a lover disappear like a fantasy. If he left she could pretend it hadn’t happened. She pressed her overheated cheek against the cool, plaster wall. After a second she’d gathered herself significantly enough to look at him. He sat sprawled in her doorway, a smug expression on his face.

“Do what you like, friend.” She swayed down the hallway. “I’m taking a shower.”

Sally went into her bathroom. It wasn’t anything special, her bathroom--pink and white tiles, a standing sink and a tacky, little shell mosaic hanging on the wall from when her mother went on her Florida vacation. Posh, beautiful Sherlock would not be impressed. Better he should go before he saw the sad state of her flat. In the four years she’d lived there, she hadn’t bothered to decorate.  
She turned on her taps and got under the spray of warm water. No sooner had she soaped up under her arms, than Sherlock came into the room. She poked her head out of the shower curtain. He stood with his hands behind his back.

“Come in with me?” She didn’t mean to sound so hopeful. “Wouldn’t want you reeking of sex on the cab ride home.”

“Are you asking me to stay?”

“If you like.”

He tugged off his suit jacket and hung it on the hook on the back of her door. While the water ran, she watched him unbutton every button. His chest was more muscular than she’d imagined, which was stupid because of how strong he’d been holding her up. He took down his trousers and then got to his shoes. He’d fucked her wearing handmade shoes with wooden soles. Somehow that didn’t make what they’d done feel any classier. When he was completely naked, he got in with her. She didn’t realize how much she’d been anticipating seeing him that way. He was proportional, muscular. The white scars on his body came as a surprise; for someone so cerebral he had the body of a fighter. Sally couldn’t fathom how badly she wanted him in her arms, until she wrapped them around his waist. It was the first taste of food to remind a person they’re starving. They kissed under the warm water. She encircled him, slicking her hands with soap. Gently, she washed him, starting with his chest. He seemed to like her touching him like that, working the soap into a lacy froth. She moved to his back, where she found long, red scars that contrasted with the surrounding skin. Sally gasped. He tensed up.

“Does it look bad?” he asked.

“No.” Sally ran her hand over the mottled skin. “I just didn’t expect it.”

She kissed the marks on his back, one by one, counting in her head as she went. There were five red slashes.

“Aren’t you going to ask what happened?” 

She hugged him, her cheek in between his shoulder blades. “Do you want to tell me?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then I don’t care.” 

He covered her hands with his own and sighed. “You’re quite different than I thought, Sally Donovan.” 

“So are you.”

***

Sherlock woke up just shy of midnight. It took him a moment to remember he’d been sleeping in Sally Donovan’s bed. He sat up, but the woman beside him didn’t stir. She slept like the dead, barely moving to draw in breath. She laid on her stomach with her face turned to the side against the pillow. Her bare shoulders peeked out from under the blanket. He considered hunting around for his clothes and slipping out. Instead he watched silver fireworks explode outside her window, dripping diamonds across the cloudy sky. It was officially New Year’s Day, and he’d started it with the most unusual person.

He hadn’t expected to have sex with Sally Donovan. 

Not ever. 

Now that it had happened, he didn’t know what would come of the experience. 

Until he’d fallen in love with John, sex hadn’t mattered. Love hadn’t mattered either, but that was beside the point. Before John, Sherlock viewed sex as an upsetting distraction that involved feelings he didn’t want to understand. Even the pleasure didn’t come naturally because there was so much intimacy involved. Frankly, he’d been daunted. He’d concocted rules and had knee jerk dismissals because he’d simply been afraid. If he’d understood, he would’ve had sex in defiance of himself, but he hadn’t. It had been a post coital revelation. While he held John asleep on his chest, Sherlock realized he’d wasted so much time being frightened.

John told him he understood. For both of them, giving into the pleasure changed who they thought they were. Sherlock was the first man John had ever been attracted to--or so he said. His browser history said different. John could remember things inaccurately sometimes, especially in matters of pride. Somehow, wanting Sherlock was a hit to John’s pride. But to make up for it, John said sweet things about how special and different and amazing he was and how their union was one of two minds first, more than their bodies. However, the union of bodies had been the part Sherlock was missing, what he’d always needed but could never say. They had been everything to one another for a brief moment before Sherlock had destroyed it all. 

Then he was truly lost to Sherlock. John fell in love with Mary. Mary, who was actually rather wonderful and impossible to dislike because she’d saved John from the brink of despair. 

In his absence from John, Sherlock had not been faithful, either. At least John had the excuse of believing him dead. Sherlock had none, except the conviction that John would have left him first. Death stalked him in earnest and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever see John again. The possibilities of the flesh had opened to him, and he’d felt the need to explore. While he was on the run, he’d had sex with men and women. He found genders limiting when it came to attraction. Women and men both could be alluring. Simple things like body type or pretty eyes weren’t usually enough to pique his interest. Beauty could be a drug, but primarily he liked danger and intelligence. He liked complexity. Sally ticked some of those boxes for him, he supposed. It still baffled him why he’d bothered to save her, not once, but twice. Her skepticism had forced him over the edge, quite literally. Although, truthfully if she’d been supportive of him while Moriarty ran his con on the world, it probably would have been the end of her career. She wouldn’t have the glorious second act which he was currently enjoying.

The differences between Sally’s public persona and her behavior at her most vulnerable moment provided an incredible amount of information. Sally Donovan’s passivity in bed was an intriguing surprise that threatened to enthrall him. In day to day life she was aggressive, but when they took on the role of lovers she longed to submit. Sally had been very loving without being in love. He knew the difference, but he appreciated her kindness and sensitivity. Not the way she normally acted--not with him. Desire could make her heel, because she wanted him. Him. Inexplicably. He badly wanted to know what caused her personality to shift, why she fell open to him here in the dark but remained closed in the day. There was more than one element at play, he was certain.  
When he cracked the little puzzle of Sally Donovan’s psyche, perhaps she’d become boring to him--although she’d never been boring to him. He’d read her from the start, but her behavior refused to conform to his conclusions. He always got her wrong, from the obvious with Anderson, to her loneliness, which hadn’t been true up until that Christmas Eve. Sally had more family, more dependents, than anyone he knew. He’d read her as a dirty cop, but found out she was one of the few untainted officers on the force. 

It had always rankled him that he couldn’t seem to understand her, and that she didn’t like him. Especially that she didn’t like him when he’d proven so valuable to all her investigations. Her lack of appreciation for him was irritating and she had that lower lip which begged to be bitten. Not that he’d understood that then, just that he’d been angry at her mouth for years. 

Even though they’d fallen into bed, he still didn’t understand her. He wasn’t sure if she liked him any more than before. It was maddening. 

His apology to her had just been a ruse to get her to stay, but later he realized it should have been genuine. He’d been shabby to her, and set the tone. Her apology had been real. He ran his fingertips along her bare back, so light that he didn’t rouse her. Her skin was unbearably soft. 

They could be like this again, if he let it happen. 

There were drawbacks, of course. She was a part of work, and it would be terribly compromising for her to be a known associate of his. That part would be easy; they could keep it discreet. The police force couldn’t deduct itself out of an unlocked room. He needed freedom to do things outside the law and she would be a hindrance, but only if she knew of them. Compartmentalization was a strong suite.

But there was John. 

His friend had not known about the other lovers and wouldn’t, but if he kept on with Sally, John might find out. John had a way of noticing personal things Sherlock often missed. He might catch a look shared between them, or a lingering touch. Sally might let something slip. If he kept on with her and found it impossible to stop--John would know.  
John had thought it funny when Sherlock kissed her, but he wouldn’t find it funny if he knew that Sherlock ached for her, that his longing wasn’t bound up to one person either. John may have been the start to his physical side, but he wasn’t the ending. Knowing would hurt John again and Sherlock had already hurt him so much.

No. 

Sherlock shook her shoulder and leaned in close to her ear. “Sally Donovan.”

Her body stiffened and she opened her eyes. “Yeah?”

“I need to go. It’s rather pressing.”

She blinked. “Sure.”

“Shall I show myself out?”

Sally pushed herself up in a Cobra pose. “I can lock up after you, give me a second.” She got up, clad only in moonlight and the shimmering light of the fireworks. Too soon she found a t shirt and a pair of knickers. 

He stood up and went into her bathroom without clicking on the light, having memorized its location. 

He’d left his clothes piled on the floor next to her sink. He could hear her puttering around the house while he slowly dressed. After he finished, Sherlock went out into the hall. Sally stood by the door holding a mug of cold soy milk. 

He could see her bare legs and the bullet wound scar on her upper thigh. The second year she’d been on the force, she’d saved a young boy from a gunman by shielding him with her body. Her bravery had nearly cost her her life, but it was the reason she’d been promoted quickly. The scar had formed a divot in her muscle. When they’d been in bed, he’d stroked it with his thumb. In his heart he’d sworn to kill the man that shot her, to make him suffer long and hard. His own intensity surprised him. It was madness, the blind rage he felt when he saw her casually standing on her good leg, her injured one pulled up flamingo-like. She still felt pain from the wound every day. Sherlock didn’t know why it bothered him so much.  
He walked over to her and put his hand on her waist. Her sleepy eyes widened.

“Happy New Year, Sally Donovan.” He kissed her cheek. 

“Happy New Year. Thanks for waking me up before you left. I hate waking up alone.”

“I do, too. It was a good night.”

“Yeah.” She smiled.

He kissed her again, this time on her soft lips. They looked at one another.

“If you ever need a friend, call me,” she said.

Sherlock stopped himself from telling her he already had a friend and the likelihood of him calling her was next to nothing because of this. Restraint was one of those skills he’d finally picked up after years of being a miserable twat.

“I will.” He kissed her nose before ducking out of the flat.


End file.
